


Away From the Sun

by Theyumenoinu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartender Dean, Cop Castiel, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mention of major character death, Mild Language, Near Death Experiences, Past relationship Dean/Amara, Police Officer Castiel, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, smut in later chapters, somewhat slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyumenoinu/pseuds/Theyumenoinu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In escaping his abusive marriage, Dean finds himself seeking refuge with his pseudo father in Sioux Falls. Where he discovers that one can never outrun their past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away From the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters.

[ ](http://s1276.photobucket.com/user/theyumenoinu/media/LetMeGocover_zpsvfueg3rf.jpg.html)

(images found on google, banner made with pizap)

 

 

**Chapter One**

 

 

 

 

_“Where are we going?”_

The wound in Dean’s shoulder throbs in time to the rhythmic swipes of the windshield wipers. White-hot pain lancing down his left arm as he shifts his weight to ease the cramping in his legs, and grits his teeth at the inordinately loud groan of leather that results from the motion. Hoping, the sound doesn’t rouse the small, slumbering form curled in a ball on the seat beside him.

_“Your grandfather’s.”_

_“I have a grandfather?”_

_“Not much of one.”_

With his eyes burning insistently, Dean wrestles against the pull of unconsciousness—barely maintaining attention on the stretch of potentially lethal highway ahead. His view obstructed by the perpetual torrent and oppressive gloom of night; in which, the high beams scarcely cut through. The darkness bearing down with a near tangible weight; bleeding through minuscule crevices of the car and constricting around his body as though intending to suffocate him.

_“Doesn’t he know about me?”_

_“He will now.”_

Dean eyes the gauge needle as it dips dangerously toward empty, inciting him to scan ahead for a frontage road or an extended shoulder—somewhere he can pull over safely. Thankful, for having some equanimity to fill up the gas can along with the tank before getting the hell out of dodge. Knowing, intuitively, that a stop at any fuel station or general establishment could point fingers in their direction.

_“We’re not going back, right?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“You promise?”_

Veins of light carve across the dark canvas of sky and illuminate the partially flooded, muddy back road he navigates away from the freeway. Bringing the Impala to a halt at an unmarked crossroads before killing the engine. The ferocity of the storm impressing upon the metal and glass with remarkable force, as though their stillness has incurred its wrath.

Dean strains for the five gallon can in the backseat, nestled between garbage bags stuffed with clothes and miscellaneous items they couldn’t afford to leave behind. The simple movement enough to aggravate his wound, eliciting a hiss of pain from him as he hefts the container one-handedly over the backrest.

“You’re bleeding.”

The unexpected voice startles him and nearly causes him to lose grip on the can—fumbling in attempt to prevent it from bashing against the dashboard.

“Dammit—” he grits; shooting a glare at the boy, who’s smiling apologetically in return. The intermittent flashes bathing his features, allowing Dean to watch the blanket covering him fall to his waist in the process of shifting upright in his seat. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was,” he confirms, as he adjusts his jacket and methodically smooths the creases from the worn material. “Until the road became bumpy.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean sniffs, and nonchalantly examines the damp patch of fabric with his palm; finding the layers of cheap gauze beneath have soaked through entirely. “It’s late. We still have a few hours ahead of us, so go back to sleep.”

A responding soft sigh pierces the roar of impinging rain upon the car. Dean’s breath hitching when he observes a sober expression harden the soft angles of the boy’s face, aging him far beyond his years. “Shouldn’t you go to a hospital?”  

_Yeah, probably._

“Nah,” Dean breezily dismisses, forcing a reassuring grin that he’s aware does little in assuaging the boy’s concern. Unable to erase what young, perceptive eyes have already witnessed. “It’s not that bad,” he lies.

Disbelief fleets across the kid’s face; the skin between his brows pinching prominently with worry. “That’s what you always say.” 

Dean winces at the twinge of guilt in his chest. Inwardly castigating himself for having been transparent and all the while burdening him, however unintentional it's been.  

“Hey,” Dean starts, patiently waiting until their gazes lock again to continue, “It’s not going to be like that anymore. Okay?”

The kid frowns minutely, incredulous. “You’ve told me that before, too.”

“I mean it this time,” he returns, earnest, and grasps the boy’s denim clad arm for emphasis. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, again. You hear me?”

_I swear it._

 

~*~

 

 

The storm relents a few miles past the border into South Dakota. Its ruling darkness yielding to the encroaching morning rays, penetrating the haze to awash the clouds in saturated reds and golden hues. Painting the start of a new chapter—another chance to turn his life around or fail miserably trying. If not for himself this time, then for the kid’s sake.

 _He deserves better than this,_ Dean muses somberly, gripping the steering wheel tenaciously until his knuckles blanch from the strain. _Way fucking better._

It’s another hour before the boy stirs; blinking and turning his head to shield his eyes from the brutal assault of the sun. The freckled skin at the bridge of his nose crinkling as a sign of irritation before he scrubs tiredly at his face.

“Well, good morning, Starshine.” Dean smirks, and being mindful of his injury, slowly reaches to ruffle the kid’s inexplicably kempt hair; earning himself a groan in protest and a feeble swat of a hand.

“Are we almost there?” he grumbles in reply, digging his profile into the leather seat, and raising his arms over his head as a barrier against any further unsolicited affection.

Dean chuckles softly; deeply amused by his meager efforts to keep him at bay. “We’re right at the city limits. Shouldn’t be more than another thirty or forty minutes.”

Although, between exhaustion from travel and continuous blood loss, Dean’s certain the last few miles will drag on. Especially, with the road tilting worryingly before him; the lines bending abnormally, forcing an illusion that the lanes are curving. The dull headache that’s been throbbing at his temples since Colorado burgeoning into an unbearable migraine.

As if sensing Dean’s suffering, the boy tentatively wonders, “Can we stop?”

“What for?” Dean questions, a brow lifting in curiosity. “I told you we can’t.”

“But, I’m hungry,” comes the muffled plea. “And I don’t want cheese crackers or fruit snacks.”

Dean releases a defeated huff at that, much too drained for puerile arguments. “There’s a peanut butter sandwich in the food bag.”

The kid stubbornly shakes his head, unwilling to surrender the negotiations. “Do we have pancakes?”

“ _Pancakes_?” Dean scoffs. “What do I look like—a restaurant?”

“Yes.”

Dean shoots him a thoroughly unamused look, and is all but relieved to behold whiskey tinged eyes peering mischievously out at him from between nearly skeletal arms—glinting with juvenile mirth.

“How’s this?” Dean propositions, “We’ll see about having pancakes once we’re at your Uncle Bobby’s, but only if you eat the sandwich now. Deal?”

“Okay.” He sighs resignedly. “Deal.”

 

~*~

 

 

Gravel crunches beneath the treads of the tires, as they pull into the open gates of Singer’s Salvage Yard. The outer face of the two-story house dilapidated as ever, though Dean knows better than to say the structure is anything but sturdy; having been constructed by competent hands from the ground up.  

A wave of nausea overcomes him the moment he clambers out of the Impala, prompting him to scrunch his eyes closed briefly to orient himself before collecting their bags from the backseat. Finding it a tremendous effort to sling them over his uninjured shoulder, and each step an exercise in control, as his knees threaten to give out under the additional weight.

The boy follows patiently behind at the pace Dean sets, his shoes scuffing over the packed dirt and kicking up dust. Causing Dean to release a pitiful cough as he eases himself onto the raised deck—only to jerk back with alarm when the front door is suddenly wrenched open, revealing someone Dean least expected.

From the threshold, John’s eyes rake over him in wordless disapproval; the heat of his ire and indignation palpable.  

“You,” he says at length, mouth thinning in displeasure.

“Need a place to stay for a while,” Dean finishes dimly. The loose planks groaning inordinately loud beneath their combined weight; even more so, once he decidedly eases the bags onto the deck.

John’s hackles rise instantly at the audacity of his request, much to Dean’s dismay. Confirming, how his meager hopes for a positive reunion has simply been nothing more than a pipe dream.    

“So, you thought you’d come here,” John rebuffs, visibly irritable, and steps further out the door; permitting it to bang menacingly against its metal framing.

A mirthless smile tugs at Dean’s lips, bracing himself for John’s impending rage. “Oh, believe me.” Feebly gesturing towards the house with a small wave of his hand, he assures, “This was the last resort.”

“I somehow doubt that.” John’s dark, inscrutable gaze sweeps past Dean to scrutinize the kid hovering at his side; regarding him dispassionately. “He yours?”

“Yeah. And also your grandson,” Dean adds on, hoping to appeal to his better nature.

John exhales audibly, pointedly ignoring Dean as he’s done countless times in his youth. “What’s your name, kid?”

Dean casts a weary sidelong glance at his son, finding him ostensibly apprehensive to answer; fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves and shifting his weight between feet. His voice subdued and quivering when after a stretch of taut silence, he tentatively replies: “Sam. Sam Winchester.”

John’s response is instantaneous; his countenance contorting irately at the supposed affront, and upper lip curling to expose teeth as he demands incisively: “Get off our property.”

“And go where?” Dean returns with a tinge of desperation. Unsure as to the reason he’s still bothering when their unwelcome is so clearly perceived.

“Anywhere but here.” Pointing to some distant place just past Dean’s left shoulder, he states, “There’s some cheap motels in town.”

“I don’t—” Swaying dangerously on his feet at a sudden rush of heat, Dean dejectedly drops his gaze in a reflexively submissive gesture. “I don’t have enough money—”

“Then, go back to wherever it is you came from!”

Bile scorches the back of Dean’s throat, as his entire world commences spinning uncontrollably under the soles of his boots. Vaguely aware of the clacking of the screen door, heralding someone’s presence, and the rapid-fire questions being hurled at him, while he suddenly loses his bearings; stumbling backwards into a support beam. His last paling seconds of consciousness being that of a distant voice calling his name, before observing the planks of the deck rush upwards to meet him.


End file.
